1775
by CSI Clue
Summary: A historical version of House, MD. What if?
1. Chapter 1

_(All right, so the point of this self-challenge was to take the familiar characters of House, MD and put them into a historical setting. I chose Colonial America because I've always liked that time period and I thought it would work well with an ensemble of characters. Have I taken liberties with history? Yes. If you're a historian, please be aware that while I'm a fan of the era, I'm not a stickler for accuracy, especially since this is a work of fiction. That being said, if you're still game to read this, you need to know two other things--Henry Jacob is based on Henry, the old Fraud from the candidates of season four, and that this entire story will only be four chapters. Enjoy--I had fun writing it!)_

**1775**

Major Gregory Phillip House, esq., Doctor and barber-surgeon attached to the 21st Regiment of Foot of His Majesty King George the Third's Army looked out over the rolling hills of New Jersey and bit back a sigh of annoyance. He sat tall in the saddle, a lean figure in scarlet and white, curly powdered hair carelessly tied back with a black ribbon. The afternoon sun made him squint, and the dank smell of the nearby river annoyed him.

He didn't want to be here.

In his estimation, all of the Colonies were a backwater posting, lacking any refinement or recreation befitting an officer, and certainly without charm. The year in Boston had been tolerable, but the further inland one went, the less civilized the population, and here in Princeton . . . the less said, the better. House shifted on his mount and looked back over at the wagon hauling his gear, wincing as it bounced over the rutted road. He feared for the brandy and port within the trunks, and hoped that the journey to Plainsboro Manor wouldn't take much longer—neither his spirits nor his backside could take much more abuse.

00oo00oo00

Mistress Cuddy was too damned pretty to have such a shrewish tongue, House deduced after the first five minutes of their initial conversation. Her vociferous objections to stabling the eight horses of the Regiment had been heard by everyone within a mile radius of Plainsboro Manor, and House noted how the rest of the household looked just as stubborn about it as she did. Not that it mattered—the Quartering Act was still the law. He would pay for his own lodging, of course, but that wouldn't begin to offset feeding the new animals.

Not his concern though—that was the department of Colonel Vogler and the rest of the Hessians currently running amok over the fields outside on their way to the neighboring estate. He looked over the bedroom and adjoining sitting room while Mistress Cuddy stood in the doorway, her arms crossed under a lovely expanse of exposed bosom. "It's all we can spare," she grumbled at him, glaring.

"And exactly where is your husband?" he asked abruptly. He'd heard the story at the tavern up the road, but wanted confirmation from her.

Mistress Cuddy stiffened. "At. Sea." Came her swift and ominous reply. "We rise early here at Plainsboro, Major. Breakfast is at six sharp, dinner at noon and supper, six again. I'm sure you'll find your own amusements in town."

"All that way, where there's so much to disrupt here?" he replied, as much to annoy her as anything else. Her lips tightened, and he added in a milder tone, "I'll be seeing patients in the sitting room—unless you want a quick education in male anatomy, you'll keep the doors shut to your parlor, Mistress."

"Oh my education is complete in that meager department, Major. Get a few of your men if you need your furniture moved, and for God's sake wipe your feet." With that, she turned from the doorway in a flounce, leaving him to stare after her, his smirk thoughtful.

She was a beauty, if overly snappish, but that didn't bother House in the least. Generally a sharp tongue was indicative of a sharp mind as well, and if all else failed, the view of her breasts would give him some amusement. It had been a long time since the sweet warmth of Mistress Warner back in Elizabethtown, he mused, yet the effort of thawing out Mistress Cuddy looked far from worth the exertion.

00oo00oo00

He was an arrogant insufferable son of a bitch, Annalisa Miriam Cuddy decided to herself. The fact that he was paying—albeit grudgingly—for his lodging didn't offset the facts of the matter in the least. Doctor House was a Royalist pain in the ass, and too sharp for his own good health. His presence meant more soldiers and that put everyone on the farm on edge.

She'd heard about him too, from Brenda the cook, and Janoski, the tavern keeper of the Green Pine just up the road. "_Smart, but knows it. Tends to drink and gamble. Likes music."_

Mildly interesting, but it was his politics she was concerned about. The last thing she needed under her roof was some Tory loyalist with subjugation on his mind. Cuddy wondered if he'd been planted at Plainsboro on purpose; if word of certain clandestine activities here had been reported. Already the maids had been through his belongings and reported nothing of particular interest, save some risqué engravings and a great deal of alcohol along with a goodly supply of opium and herbal tinctures.

In short, nothing unusual for a military doctor.

They reported a packet of letters as well, most of them in a feminine hand, but those were of no interest to Cuddy—whatever affairs of the heart Doctor House had were his own. He spent enough time ogling her and her maids to be a nuisance, but so far he hadn't bothered to proposition any of them yet.

Yet.

Still, with a little care and some luck she'd be able to keep her affairs from his inquisitive nature. Her staff was loyal to her; that much Cuddy knew, and she had a few friends in high enough places to keep Doctor House in line for the moment.

00oo00oo00

"So where is he now?" James Wilson asked quietly, walking by Cuddy's side down Piper Lane. He carried her basket for her, and already it held a sack of flour and three lobsters in it. She motioned to the candlemaker's shop before she spoke.

"Making his rounds at the camp on the other side of the river. He'll be back sometime in the afternoon, demanding brandy and then will serenade us with that violin of his," Cuddy groused.

"He plays badly?"

"No, he's quite good, but some nights he doesn't stop until well after midnight," she sighed. "It's hard to settle the household down when he does that."

James gave a knowing half-smile. "I'd have thought the distraction helpful, for--certain matters."

"If only to mark where he is, there IS that," Cuddy agreed reluctantly. "At least he doesn't wander around the property much after dark. I'm tempted to dose him with his own laudanum at times, but he'd figure it out." She stepped into the shop and nodded familiarly to the girl behind the counter, who pulled a small burlap sack from the shelf behind her.

"Ah, Mistress Cuddy, your week's worth of bayberries. Any wax or stands today?"

"Not else today, Mary," She replied, dropping her coins on the counter. "Thank you."

James gallantly loaded the candles into the basket, and followed Cuddy out again. He shot a glance up the street, toward the printers and spoke low to her. "There's a meeting tonight at the shop, if you can make it. If not, leave a candle in your window and I'll let the others know."

She nodded absently. "I'll make it. What about Chase?"

"He should be there, unless they hold him up at the Dockmaster's again. Make sure you're not followed if you come, 'Lisa. We don't need trouble; not now."

She shot him an impatient look. "I said I can handle House—you just make sure you're not followed. Colonel Vogler isn't as stupid as the Hessians he commands, you know."

"No, but he's a sound sleeper," James winced a little. "And a heavy snorer."

00oo00oo00

Up in the library, he watched Mistress Cuddy dismount from the wagon and stride in, basket on her arm, confident and preoccupied. By the look of it, she'd gotten supplies and dinner all in one trip--expedient of her. The man on the wagon with her was a stranger, and House felt a prickle of interest war a bit with a stab of jealousy, particularly in light of the other man's dimpled smile.

House set his book aside, turned from the window and made his way down the stairs, taking in the two of them in the foyer, speaking in low tones. "Mistress Cuddy . . . you bring, light, food and . . ?" he stared at the man pointedly. The man bowed courteously and smiled up at him.

"James Wilson, of Hitchcock House, yonder. Your neighbor, currently hosting your commanding officer." There was something in the way he said it that made House smile; clearly Vogler's charms had not gotten any better in the last week or so.

"Lucky you," House replied, reaching the foot of the stairs. "I'm sure he's the bon vivant and sterling conversationalist I remember so well."

"I'm afraid not," Wilson replied lightly. "His exchanges with me are measured out like sugar—one spoonful at a time, lest too many words get in the way."

"German efficiency," House couldn't help replying with a smirk. Wilson smiled back, and between them, Cuddy arched an eyebrow.

"You're back early, Doctor House—nobody dying of bad mushrooms or tainted rat?" she asked.

House sighed. "Two cases of snakebite, stitches for a poor card player, and a late season run of dysentery brought on by an idiot drinking water out of a slops bucket. I was thinking of heading to the Green Pine this evening—join me?" he offered to Wilson, who looked slightly stricken.

"I'm afraid I have a dinner appointment in town this evening. Another night, perhaps," came the gallant counteroffer as Wilson avoided glancing at Cuddy. Keenly House looked from one to the other, but didn't say anything, and turned to his sitting room. Cuddy waited until the door closed, then shot Wilson a glance and nodded.

00oo00oo00

Foreman's Printers was located on the far end of Piper Lane, and there were only a few shops with lights in the windows after sunset; nevertheless Cuddy reached the back door half an hour after saddling up at Plainsboro. She'd ridden it many times, only being stopped once by the night watchman, who hadn't recognized her at the time.

She dismounted and tied Honor up, then knocked discreetly at the back door. Foreman appeared, holding a lantern, his expression concerned. "Were you followed?"

"No," Cuddy replied impatiently, following him inside. The tiny backroom was already crowded, and the men there turned to look at her, some nodding politely. Carefully Cuddy looked around: Robert Chase, Master of the _Morgan G., _golden-haired and handsome in his fine linen frilled shirt and blue wool coat; James, of course; Henry Jacob of Jacob and Sons, bearded and distinguished, clay pipe already in hand, and next to her, wiping his fingers clean of ink, Eric Foreman. She took a seat at the table and waited as the rest of the men sat as well.

"You have a guest these days, Mistress Cuddy—care to enlighten us?" Foreman began, his tone slightly impatient. He was always that way though; supportive of the Cause if only for economic reasons, and far more eager to get on with his business than to discuss politics.

"Doctor-surgeon for the Twenty-First across the river," Cuddy replied. "Smart, sulky and could be trouble for his sheer nosiness."

"Loyalist?" Chase asked, pulling out a flat packet of parchment from some inner pocket of his cloak. Cuddy gave a shrug.

"Hard to say. He's not interested in politics in the least, and although I've heard some damning remarks about his commanding officer, I think it's more a matter of personal dislike than disloyalty. House will need watching though—as I said, he's sharp."

"Can you handle it?" Wilson murmured. Cuddy nodded, her smile tight.

"He'll be kept in line. So what's the news?" she asked in turn, and with that, Chase broke the seal on the packet, unfolded it and scanned the page, grinning.

"Dispatch from Boston—looks as if our cousins up north have been busy . . . again."

Foreman rolled his eyes. "More shouting. Would that they'd take a page from us and get to the action of the thing. This revolution would be over by Christmas if Boston did more than try to argue the king to death."

"They make a fine diversion though," Henry pointed out as his lit his clay pipe. "And because of them, nobody looks to New Jersey. Read us the news, Chase."

Chase did, keeping his voice low in the lamplight. Cuddy listened thoughtfully and when he was done, she looked around the group, grinning. "Well . . . if it's information they want on the troops, then we're in a perfect position to supply it."

Foreman nodded crossing his strong arms over his chest. "Enough comings and goings in the process of feeding them alone. I take it you can pull more from your . . . guest?"

"I'll try. James, you've got the more likely source—" she looked at her neighbor. He gave a slight shake of his head.

"Vogler's not much for conversation, and he locks up all his personal papers, but I can try. Maybe a few of his underlings would be willing to chat, if approached the right way. In the meantime, we need to keep a low profile in light of the news from Boston."

"Agreed," Henry replied, exhaling smoke. "I might make a visit out your way tomorrow, Mistress, and see what sort of man this House is. And on my way back, I might take the river route and have a look at the camp."

"Good idea," Cuddy replied. She rose from the table and looked around at the men once more. "Don't forget, gentlemen--my dinner party is set for next week, and all of you are invited to Plainsboro for it—we dine at seven."

Nods all around made her smile, and she reached for her cloak before slipping out the door.

00oo00oo00

House tugged on the reins lightly; Repsol was a cantankerous mount, prone to drifting if not kept in check. The big piebald snorted and moved back onto the road; House took in the night air, trying to clear his head. Cards at the Green Pine had proved a minor distraction at best, and neither of the wenches had been tempted by his winnings.

Their loss, he sourly decided, his gain.

He was bored. The latest missive from Stacy had been full of tears and hot promises, but he doubted she'd find the excuse to come south, away from the gimlet eye of her solicitous husband, Mark. No, there was nothing much to do but lance boils and dose bad bellies until the next skirmish with the locals. A few of the books in the manor library were still tempting, though, and he'd learned from one of the maids that Plainsboro had a harp in the attic; with a little tuning, he could master it, House was sure.

Hoof beats broke into his thoughts, and he looked up to see a horse cantering across the tree line on the other side of the road, moving between the oaks and heading for the fields. Curious, House pulled Repsol to a halt and watched.

The figure road towards Plainsboro, and circled wide of the main drive. House reached back to give the piebald a swat; the horse broke into a gallop, moving along the road swiftly. House wasn't sure if he could intercept the other rider, but he was determined to try, even as he pondered who it might be. A courier for himself from the regiment? A secret lover of Mistress Cuddy's?

That latter thought was annoying, and House figured if it was Wilson, all the worse. Still, the humiliation of the moment would be enjoyable, so he urged the big horse faster, and reached the stables in time to note the open door nearest the kitchen. Moving with stealth, House dismounted and slipped inside, listening carefully.

The horses stirred, but his ear caught footsteps just inside the first stall, where the bay mare usually stood. He paused a moment, and his nose brought him the scent. Reaching out, he snagged the arm of the figure and pulled hard; a warm and curvy body collided with his. House grinned, enjoying the contact as he snaked one hand around her waist and another over her mouth. "Good evening, Mistress . . . out late, are we not?"

Before her sharp little teeth could break the skin of his fingers he pulled his hand away from her soft lips. Cuddy snarled. "Get your hands OFF me, Sir!"

"You're warm, and the night is cool . . ." House observed. He bent his head to her hair, sniffing. "And you smell of tobacco—not a scent I've associated with you previously."

"And you reek of spirits and tobacco yourself, House—though I'm surprised not to find cheap scent on you as well!" Cuddy snapped. "Janoski's doxies too busy for you tonight?" She tried to pull away from him, but House had strength in his long arms and kept her back pinned against his chest as he managed a mock-sigh.

"Feisty, aren't you? Not your most lovable quality, you know. Still, it was a good night at cards and I'm feeling generous. I might keep your rendezvous quiet, if offered the right incentive."

This brought renewed struggling, but House tightened his grip, grinning in the dark. The sensations she was creating were delightful, although Mistress Cuddy didn't seem to be aware of her effect just yet. He leaned down to breathe in her ear, speaking softly. "Christ! Unless you want me to drag you up into the hayloft, stop, woman! What I want in exchange for my silence is nothing more than the harp in your attic."

"Wh-what?" Cuddy turned her head and glared at him in the dim light. House smiled, his teeth very white for a moment.

Fox-like.

"The harp. I'm sure you're all tired of my violin solos, and it's too much to expect a harmonium or clavichord out here in the Ninth Ring, but I did hear tell of a harp."

In his arms, Cuddy went still; he took a chance and loosened his grip on her, aware of how even tousled and angry, she aroused him.

Especially tousled and angry, House amended to himself. She pursed her lips and gave a slow nod, reaching up to brush some loose strands from her face. "The harp. Fine. You want to play it, you're welcome to it. Just let me go and we'll both forget tonight."

"Forget? Unlikely," House murmured. "But as a gentleman, I'll keep mum about it, certainly."

"You are NO gentleman," Cuddy ground out, freshly infuriated. House dipped his head and recklessly kissed her, hard. She flailed, hands beating on his shoulders for a moment, but her blows had no effect, and after a few long moments she seemed to submit.

House yelped when her teeth sank into his lower lip, and he jerked away from her, cursing lightly. Cuddy shot him a withering look and stormed away, leaving him in the dark of the barn to dab at his wounded mouth.

He smiled.


	2. Chapter 2

His smirk was intolerable. Cuddy made it a point to avoid it, and there was enough to tend to throughout the manor to make that fairly easy. The late crop of corn needed to be harvested, and there was still the last batch of linen to dye. Fortunately Wilson and his household had made soap earlier in the month and were willing to trade a goodly amount for thread.

Wilson's ward, Allison Cameron was handy at spinning as well as weaving; she came over often, as much to leave the odious company of Vogler and his lieutenants as to barter home goods and share gossip. She filled out the weekly sewing circle that included Wilson's latest wife Emily and Mrs. Farber from down the lane; a flinty widow with considerable holdings along the riverfront.

The four ladies made a formidable grouping, and House avoided them when they clustered in the parlor, each bringing her willow basket of work with them. Had he or anyone else looked under all the needlework, they might have found packets and letters of interest, but since no-one did, the status quo remained. The ladies sewed, gossiped, and when they took a break for molasses cookies and tea, the baskets made a quick shift in the manner of musical chairs, so that Widow Farber's basket because Mistress Cuddy's basket; Mistress Cuddy's basket in turn became Emily Wilson's basket; Emily's became Alison's basket, and Alison's was now in the possession of Mrs. Farber.

A quick and subtle exchange.

No so was the gossip, which was generally lively. All of the women agreed that General Washington was a handsome man; that the price of corn was going to go higher; that war was inevitable, and that Janoski's barmaid Honey was going to find herself with very short apron strings by spring if she didn't mend her hussy ways. Once the needlework was done, the ladies made their adieus and Cuddy took a moment to carry her basket back up to her room.

Normally that was not a worry, but lately House had taken to wandering the entire manor, and one never knew when he would appear. He generally avoided trips to the encampment for as long as he could, and never volunteered to go; more often he had to be fetched and could be heard grumbling as he mounted up and rode off.

The greater concern for Cuddy was simply running into the man in some empty room. He loomed over her, and from the expression he gave her whenever they were alone it was clear that he enjoyed the cat and mouse aspect of their arrangement. He didn't frighten Cuddy; he annoyed her in a way that left her pulse quickened and her stomach tight.

Still, the weekly rent was useful, and House kept his hands to himself for the most part, so it was with great reluctance that Cuddy invited him to the dinner party.

"Dinner?"

"Dinner. Stuffed roast goose, hominy, stewed turnips and wine," she recited impatiently. "Nothing exotic, but I'm sure that won't stop you and your appetite."

"Surrounded by a bunch of stiff-necked locals forced to be polite to my face while I tout the many and myriad benefits of loyalty to good old Georgie three?" House mused with gleeful spite. "I'm sure my dinner conversation will enthrall them."

"You don't give a rat's nethers for either side of the current situation," Cuddy told him with more conviction than she felt. House arched an eyebrow at her. He was sitting in the middle of the library, trying to tune the harp, which stood on a battered piece of canvas, half of the gut strings curled at his buckled shoes. His sleeves were rolled up, and he'd left off powdering his hair, although it was still carelessly tied back.

"No, but they won't know that, and it's more fun to prod the rebels than to sit and agree with them. Hand me that pitch pipe—" he told her. Cuddy picked it up from the table and held it out, trying hard not to look at the instrument OR at House.

The harp had been David's; he'd brought it with him from Ireland and had played it passingly well. Mostly ballads in Gaelic, of course, but he knew some other tunes too. She'd put it away after his first year at sea, and hadn't let herself think of it since then; it was too painful a reminder.

And yet here it was, out in the sunlight and in House's hands. Cuddy felt a pang of betrayal.

House looked up at her and blew a note on the pipe, then plucked one of the strings. It was slightly flat, and he tightened the string until it matched the note. Satisfied, he picked up one of the other strings. "So . . . your husband's been dead for nearly four years, yet you keep up the pretense. Interesting."

Cuddy stiffened. She crossed her arms and looked out the window. "David is at sea. I get letters from him regularly."

"No you don't," House corrected her quietly. "You get letters from SOME one, but they're in a different hand from the earlier notes you have tucked away in that little wooden box in your desk."

Cuddy blinked, not daring to turn around. Her jaw ached. "Christ! You go too far."

"I'm not the one keeping a ghost around. My question is why? Why go through the charade to avoid widowhood? It's clear that you know your husband is dead, but for some reason---"

"—House!" she turned finally, eyes boring into his. "My reasons are my own, and you don't need to be privy to them."

He didn't smile as he looped a new string on the harp. "They're not that hard to deduce. A widow with no male kin sitting on a valuable piece of property would be fair game for confiscation by the Crown, whereas a wife, patiently awaiting her lord and master would be within her rights to manage HIS property in his absence. Quod erat demonstrandum."

Cuddy held her breath for a moment, controlling her temper, then exhaled slowly, not blinking. She spoke firmly, each word measured out. "Dinner party, yes or no?"

House glanced at her for a moment. "Yes. And wear that burgundy silk in the back of your wardrobe, would you? I'm fond of the color."

Cuddy left angrily, making a mental note to call on the locksmith as soon as possible.

00oo00oo00

The dinner party went well; all the way up to the shooting anyway.

House said little, but his presence made itself felt throughout. Wilson, his wife and ward sat on one side of the table, Jacob, Chase and Foreman on the other. Cuddy hadn't wanted to give House the honor of the foot of the table, but he claimed the seat without a word, his expression mild. She knew better, but let it go; Chase said the grace and they all began to serve themselves, passing dishes and comments.

"New York has begun to barrel and ship oysters; they should keep all the way to from there to Hamburg,"

Chase commented. Across the table from him, Allison smiled, and passed the turnips.

"Hardly the most savory of cargoes, I'd imagine. Timber would be more practical."

"Better timber or oysters than slaves," Foreman grumbled.

Jacob shrugged. "Hard enough to bring in crops of tobacco or cotton on servants alone, Eric. If the king permitted more immigration on a yearly basis there would be less of a market for manpower."

"It's more of an issue of land grants, really," Wilson tried to interject, and the discussion took off from there, lively and full. Foreman and Wilson favored immigration while Chase and Cuddy generally opposed it without some form or regulation. House sat drinking claret and seeming to listen. When a lull came in the conversation he broke in, his voice low and amused.

"You're all idiots. The king doesn't make any decision these days, it's all done in his name by his cabinet. He'd rather garrison an army in Boston and rub their presence in your faces than admit to the inequities of colonial representation and economics, simple as that. As long as Lord North is in charge of the Royal Seal, you'll have Hanoverians sitting on your arses like boils."

Jacob spoke first, his expression mildly amused. "You don't sound particularly fond of His Highness—rather dangerous a position for a man with your chosen commission to take, isn't it?"

"I dislike stupidity, and I'm magnanimous in my loathing of it. Politics doesn't enter into the matter per se," House retorted. "If you seven honestly believe that any member of Parliament gives two shits for your best interests, then think again: The Colonies are nothing but one large resource, ripe for exploitation. What the Crown won't take, the Dutch East India Company will."

"That's sounding a bit treasonous," Chase warned, looking around the table worriedly. House gave a shrug, biting his words off, his British accent sharper with his irritation.

"Mayhap, if I was sitting with Colonel Vogler and his arse kissers. But I'm not—I'm snug at a table-full of discontented citizens who've been testing me all night. I don't care for your petty games or your domestic discontents, gentlemen. The only saving graces are the claret, and the cut of Mistress Cuddy's dress—both are to my taste."

Cuddy rose, ominously, and for a moment the men around the table flinched, but before she could launch into a scathing reply to House's rudeness, the fast thrum of hoof beats approaching the manor grew louder in the pause. Chase, Foreman and Jacob looked to the door; Wilson looked at Cuddy, who nodded. He rose and hurried to the front door as a hoarse voice yelled out.

"House! I've come for Doctor House!"

House rose, looking irritated. "Christ, what now?" He strode into the foyer, and through the open front door Cuddy caught a glimpse of a figure leaning down from a lathering horse, half in shadow.

Wilson held a lantern up. "Yes? What—"

The figure shouted again. "Move away—House!"

The glint of light fell on the pistol in the man's outstretched hand. House stepped forward brazenly. "Stop yelling."

The man fired. House stumbled back and fell against the coat rack, clutching it as the man yelled. "Stay! Stay away from him." He added in a taunting voice, "Shocking, isn't it? Who'd want to hurt you?"

Cuddy ran, pushing the dining room chairs out of the way. Wilson was already at House's side; the horseman clattered away as servants came running to the foyer in a panic. Foreman waved to a few to follow him after the horseman. Cuddy looked at House.

He lay sprawled on the ground, his right thigh spouting blood in great scarlet sprays across the parquet floor of the foyer; Wilson was struggling to rip open the hole in the breeches, and yelling to Jacob to pull off his cravat and tie it higher up on the leg.

Cuddy shouted. "Chase! House's bag is inside the door of his waiting room—bring it! Allison, get water from kitchen; Emily, bandages from my scrap bag by the fireplace!"

"We'll have to dig the shot out—it didn't go through," Wilson gritted. "House!"

"Stop . . . yelling and stop the . . . damned bleeding!" House hissed weakly, his hands helping Jacob to tie the tourniquet. He was pale and trembling, but not panicking, and that helped considerably.

Cuddy knelt and took his head on her thighs, cupping his face. "Stay calm, we'll do what we can. Both Chase and Wilson have some experience with surgery."

"On sheep, right?" House grunted. "Listen to me, 'Lisa—get the ball out, then cauterize. Poker . . . from the fireplace. Close the vein . . . " He mumbled, going paler still. Cuddy looked at Wilson, who nodded.

"He's right; he'll bleed to death if we don't close the vein. Henry, get to the fireplace and start heating up the poker. Where's the water?"

Chase came and knelt next to Wilson; both men began to gently probe into the messy strings of torn muscle and flaps of skin on House's thigh. Emily and Alison carried a steaming wooden bucket between them and moved back, passing folded bits of clean rag forward. Cuddy kept House's head up, and spoke to him firmly. "Bite—" She directed, slipping a twisted section of rag across his mouth. He weakly opened and did it.

Wilson splashed water to wash away what blood he could, but more kept leaking out of the damaged area. Chase was fishing into the wound, probing as gently as possible, not noticing or caring about the scarlet splashes on his lace sleeves. "I think I have it—"

He pulled out his fingers, a lead ball the size of a marble between them. Wilson splashed more water. "Henry!"

"Coming!" The older man shouted, "It's taking a while to heat the damned thing up!"

"It won't do him a damned bit of good if he's dead before you get the iron here!" Wilson snapped, tightening the tourniquet. The blood across the floor had nearly reached the doorsill. Jacob's heavy footsteps echoed from the dining room as he moved quickly, holding the poker before him, the bottom third of it red-hot.

"Move," he tersely told Emily and Alison, who were already shifting back. He looked to Wilson, who took it gingerly from him. "Jesus—"

Wilson looked to Jacob, Chase and Cuddy. "Hold him. House, if you can hear me, brace yourself—" He pressed the glowing tip into the wound.

Instantly the horrible hiss and rising blood steam filled the foyer, along with House's agonized shriek. The yell died away as House lost consciousness, but the hideous stench of burning flesh hung in the air. Wilson shifted the iron, his expression grim as he pressed it again into the long and ragged wound.

00oo00oo00

Cuddy tried not to yawn. She sat in the parlor, facing the implacable figure of Colonel Edward Vogler, who was gazing back at her, his expression unreadable. He spoke flatly. "The situation is . . . regrettable."

"Yes," she murmured, rubbing one hand along her skirt. Ruined, of course—blood didn't come out of silk willingly. It was nearly dawn, and her fatigue was making her light-headed. House had been carried to his bed, and one of the manservants was keeping watch on him. Everyone else had gone home, but Vogler had insisted on an immediate report of the incident.

There wasn't much to report. Foreman and the two servants had found the shooter's trail leading back to the main road, but not much else beyond a scrap of a letter with the address of Plainsboro Manor on it.

"Do you recognize this, Mistress Cuddy?" Vogler held out the piece of parchment. The handwriting was somewhat feminine, Cuddy noted, but said nothing for a moment, shifting her gaze out towards the foyer. They'd poured bucked after bucket on the floor, but the wood was still stained and dark.

"No, although I suppose it's from some lady friend of his. I'm not privy to his correspondence, Colonel," she wearily replied. Vogler gave a businesslike shake of his large head, looking like an annoyed bulldog in a white powdered wig.

"House has always been more trouble than he's worth. I'm sure Mistress Warner is tied up in this somehow. It means I'll have to send an inquiry to Elizabethtown, and see if honor has been satisfied, and in the meantime my troops are without their surgeon for God knows how long. A bad business, Mistress Cuddy—fortunately your dinner party seemed to rise to the occasion." He paused and added, "An interesting group you had to dine."

"I often have them to dinner," Cuddy replied sharply. "James Wilson and my husband were childhood friends; Henry Jacob is my attorney, and Eric Foreman is a business associate of the highest merit. The only reason House was even invited was to balance out the seating at the table, Colonel."

"And he's managed to upset more than that this evening," Vogler pointed out with a sigh. "Will he recover?"

"I don't know. He seems to have a resilient constitution, and as long as infection doesn't set in he has a fair chance," Cuddy echoed Wilson's prognosis. "We're doing what we can to keep him sedated for a while."

"Best for all concerned," Vogler agreed. "I'll leave him in your hands. Inform me if he dies." With that, he gave an absent bow to Cuddy and left her, his heavy boots loud against the wooden floor.

Cuddy rose, and moved towards House's room, fatigue and frustration settling on her shoulders like a cloak. She opened the door and found young Paul asleep in the ladder-back chair; she woke and dismissed him, then waited until he was gone to move closer to the still figure on the feather bed.

House was still unconscious and she took a moment to study his face, noting how much younger he seemed. His beard was coming in now, a shadow over his thin cheeks and chin, heaviest under his long nose. Cuddy lightly stroked his cheek, uncomfortably aware of how long it had been since she'd touched a man so intimately.

His skin was cool; she knew he'd lost a great deal of blood, but Wilson had assured her that the wound was sealed, and given time, House would recover. "He won't be the same—if he walks at all, he'll limp, and whether or not he can manage his horse—" Wilson's parting shrug said it all, and Cuddy knew it was out of their hands now.

House opened his eyes.

Cuddy started. House moved his lips, making no sound, and she leaned closer, wondering what he needed to say to her---

"I . . . can see . . . right down your dress . . . " he weakly smirked, and closed his eyes again. Cuddy bit her lips, as much to hold back her laugher as her annoyance.

He was going to survive, all right—if only long enough so that she could box his ears.


	3. Chapter 3

Cuddy stood in the doorway of the bedroom and glared. Usually it was her most frightening expression; she had most of her servants cowed with it, even Isaiah and William, but it seemed to have no effect on the man on the feather mattress. He barely registered it and closed his eyes again. "And so the children tattle tales to Nursie, who comes bearing the strap . . . " he droned mockingly.

She stepped in and looked at the spilled gruel; the cracked wooden bowl lying at the side of the bed, victim of a quick shove. Cuddy counted to ten in her head. "If you don't eat, you won't recover. And if you don't recover, you'll be stuck in that bed for the winter, and should it come to that, I'll have the men lift it by the four corners and carry it out to the hog shed, House, so that you may share your manners with the beasts you so beautifully put to shame with your gratitude and patience."

One eye opened warily, rolling towards her to assess this new threat. Cuddy held her gimlet gaze, and finally House gave a chuff of annoyed acquiescence. "I want more wine of opium, first."

"No. When you do, you lose your appetite, and I need you to eat," Cuddy told him, moving forward and picking up the bowl. House scowled. His beard was thick now, and startlingly dark on his pale face. Cuddy felt his gaze follow her actions, and when she straightened up, caught his petulant expression. "What now?" she demanded quietly.

He folded his hands in his lap. "I propose a bargain."

"No."

"You haven't heard my terms," he protested, annoyed at being shot down so quickly. Cuddy pulled a kerchief from her apron pocket and began to wipe up the drying gruel.

"I don't need to hear them. You have nothing to bargain with, House—you're an invalid at the moment, and completely dependent on me and my household. Should you prove unbearable, I will simply have you carried off to the regimental encampment, where Colonel Vogler will assign a few rough-handed bumpkins there to feed you and wipe your arse."

House managed a mock-serene look. "Ah, but I do have something, Mistress Cuddy—a commodity you need very much." He managed to look both slightly menacing and lascivious as he spoke, and Cuddy pursed her mouth, reluctantly listening.

"And that would be--?"

"My silence," House murmured, closing his eyes.

The pause grew; Cuddy was too smart to bluff, and aware that even when incapacitated, House was still a potential danger. She took a step closer, setting the gruel-covered rag in the bowl, setting it on the bedside table, on top of the latest broadsheet. "Your silence, " she echoed quietly.

"People talk," House began in a low voice. "A word here, a comment there. When a man has time to listen, even small pieces begin to fit into bigger puzzles, 'Lisa. I have no proof, of course, but I've heard and seen enough to put together a convincing argument for Colonel Vogler to put James Wilson under house arrest, and to have Robert Chase's ship seized and searched."

"You . . . wouldn't," Cuddy said with more conviction than she felt, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at House, who finally opened his eyes. His gaze was cynical, and tinged with pain; he struggled a little to sit up.

"No . . . not if I'm . . . accommodated. I'll be good—angelic might be pushing it, but at the very least more cooperative, if I'm provided with a few little preferences."

Cuddy's expression twisted with renewed exasperation; House's invalidism was already taking a toll on Plainsboro if the past three weeks had been any indication. She cocked her head, her expression stubborn, but House waited until she gave a little sigh.

"Let's hear what your demands are, and they we can negotiate from there, Doctor House."

He told her.

Two minutes later she was out of the room, moving at a quick pace to the kitchen, her expression frightening enough to make the cook scurry out of her way. Cuddy slammed the bowl down on the wooden table and took a moment to grip the edges of it as she regained her composure.

"Doctor House?" Cook asked softly, knowing the answer. Cuddy shot the other woman a dark look.

"Brenda, if I take it upon myself to feed that . . . man . . . his meals and change his bandages and linens soley, will you and Paul divide up the mending and see to it that the late crops get in the rest of this month?"

"In a heart's beat, Mistress," Brenda grinned, then cleared her throat. "Tis not a Christian thing to say, but House the very devil to please, and the less often any of US are around him, the better."

"It seems to be his wish as well, and in order to both keep peace and get that . . . . ingrate back on his feet, I'm going to attend to him myself from now on," Cuddy ground out between clenched teeth. "Mayhap if he's only got ONE person to torment, he'll heal faster. God willing," she finished. Brenda said nothing as Cuddy moved to the cupboards and fished around, pulling out another wooden bowl.

She turned to Brenda and spoke again, her words firm and clear. "Let everyone know that I will attend to his little sick Majesty starting now. I want another bowl of heated gruel, please, and a mug of cider. Tell William to move the sheep to the south pasture without me, and have Paul exercise the horses this afternoon, if I'm not here for noon meal."

"You are a brave woman," Brenda assured her solemnly, and bustled to the fireplace where the pot was hanging.

00oo00oo00

Wilson rapped at the door again, waiting anxiously for it to open. The sun was near setting, and he was due back at Hitchcock House for Sabbath, but there was time enough to check on House's leg and deliver more medication, if anyone would let him in. He was just about to rap again when the door opened, and a breathless Cuddy stood before him, her cheeks flushed. She smiled, gratefully. "You! Thank God, come in, James—"

"What, is he worse?" Wilson asked, alarmed as he crossed the threshold, doffing his hat and looking anxious. Cuddy didn't reply, and led the way toward House's bedroom, the two of the passing through the sitting room on the way. They reached the bedroom, and in the candlelight, Wilson thought House looked much better than he had in several days. His color was good; almost a little flushed in fact, and judging from the tray of half-finished bread and soup, his appetite was back.

"Ah, the quack—" House greeted him snidely. "Aren't you supposed to be out drowning Christian children in wells?"

"I'll kick one in on the way home, just for you," Wilson replied, unfazed, moving to lift the quilt and examine House's leg. Under the bandages, the raw wound was beginning to heal, angry pink flesh in ragged furrows, the shiny skin of burns melding in thick ugly tracks along the dented muscle. House himself didn't look down; his gaze was flinty, and directed at Cuddy, who refused to meet his eyes. "It's healing well . . . " Wilson murmured, pressed gently along the edges. "No abnormal heat to the skin, or swelling---"

"No infection," House agreed curtly. "Did you bring it?"

Wilson sighed and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small, cloth-wrapped bottle. The cork had been sealed with wax, and within it, the brown liquid moved with a sludgy thickness; Wilson glanced at it, and then at House, who was eyeing it with a sense of anticipation.

"To me—" Cuddy broke in, holding out her hand. With relief, Wilson passed it to her and she tucked it into the pocket of her skirt.

House scowled. "I'm more qualified than either of you to gauge my need and use."

"Not at the moment," Cuddy told him firmly. Wilson noted that there was a book on the bed; it looked as though House had been reading moments before. He moved to pick it up, but House shifted to stop him, laying a protective hand over the cover.

"Ah-ah—"he chided, giving Wilson a mock-glare. "Anything else? Do I need bloodletting or a nice emetic?"

Wilson shot House a tolerantly good-natured look. "Neither of those would help your leg, although they'd be delightful to administer—"

"Try it, and you will be the one passing leeches, Christ-Killer," House growled without malice.

Wilson rolled his eyes at Mistress Cuddy, who gave a tired little sigh and spoke softly. "He's eating better."

"Good. Whatever works, keep doing it," Wilson told her. He missed House's smile to that, which was slightly predatory, but Wilson did catch Cuddy's rapid blink and wince. "Are you all right?"

"I'm well," She fended his inquiry. "Just . . . occupied with matters of the moment. Thank you," Cuddy added gently.

After she'd seen Wilson out, she gritted her teeth and returned to the bedroom, leading with her jaw this time, and determined not to let House rattle her. He looked up as she crossed the bedroom threshold, and while he wasn't smiling, there was a certain mischievous look in his eyes. "Back to read again?"

"Eat, or no opium," Cuddy told him, patting her pocket. House glanced at the wooden tray with the half-eaten slice of bread on it. Reluctantly he picked the bread up.

"Butter?"

"None made; the cow is going dry," Cuddy reminded him as she stepped closer to the bed.

"Honey?"

"Used up."

"Jam?"

"Saving it for winter—House, EAT," Cuddy snapped, balling her fists and leaning down on them to glare in his face. With a great show of being offended, he nibbled a corner of the bread in sulky silence for a moment. With his free hand, he pushed the book towards her.

Cuddy paused, and closed her eyes for a moment. She picked up the volume, pulled the ribbon out marking the page and settled in on the edge of the mattress.

House looked at her, his expression mild. Waiting.

Cuddy cleared her throat, reading softly and hurriedly. _"My bosom was now bare, and rising in the warmest throbs, presented to his sight and feeling the firm hard swell of a pair of young breasts, such as may be imagin'd of a girl not sixteen, fresh out of the country, and never before handled; but even their pride, whiteness, fashion, pleasing resistance to the touch, could not bribe his restless hands from roving; but giving them the loose, my petticoats and shift were soon taken up, and their stronger center of attraction laid open to their tender invasion."_

House's smile deepened; he nibbled the bread and nodded for her to continue.

She sighed. "_My fears, however, made me mechanically close my thighs; but the very touch of his hand insinuated between them, disclosed them and opened a way for the main attack . . ._ " Cuddy paused, her expression slightly mortified, and shot a pained look at her patient, who was looking back, not at her face, but a bit lower. "—House!"

"You rush it a bit—try to put a bit more of a salacious tone into your recitation there, although I approve of the heaving bosoms," he told her, after swallowing his mouthful. "Adds an ambience to Cleland's words, although you are decidedly no fifteen year old, not with those dugs—"

Cuddy's hand flew out to his cheek, but he caught it easily, his long fingers circling around her wrist and holding it an inch or two from his face. For a moment she struggled. Thinking better of it, though, Cuddy forced her arm to relax; sensing the change, House softened his grip and turned his head, brushing his beard against her palm, like a cat seeking a caress.

She held herself very still, not wanting to admit that the sensation was a good one. House gave a soft sigh. "You have a deft touch—was the harp yours, or your husband's?"

"His." The reply slipped out before she could stop herself. "It's too rich and idle a toy for hands like mine." It wasn't a complaint; merely an observation. House still hadn't let go of her wrist, though his grip shifted, nearly caressing her much smaller fingers.

"I'm sure these fingers can dance a merry tune on a man's hornpipe—" he drawled.

Cuddy fought another sigh, caught between irritation at his salacious words, and an undercurrent of slow, thick desire. The latter had been stirring, quite against her better judgment and much to her annoyance. House wasn't the sort of man she'd ever have had anything to do with, if events hadn't forced him into her home and care. He was recklessly direct, often to the point of being crude; impatient and snappish, intolerant of other people and cruel.

He was also wealthy, and far too intelligent to dismiss, or even consider disposing of, however. She'd argued to let him die, but both Foreman and Wilson pointed out that House's death would arouse suspicion, and in any case, she'd be forced to take in another officer just the same. Better the devil you know, Wilson intoned.

Easy for him to say. Vogler was reasonably polite and spent most of his time with his troops. He didn't make outrageous demands or lewd comments, and while his presence wasn't appreciated, it wasn't completely intolerable either.

"You've mastered the solo well enough," Cuddy told House with a hint of belligerence. He flashed a small grin at that.

"I was thinking on expanding to a duet, or perhaps a recital, where I could observe your technique from a position to know—"

"I'm a hard milker—ask the cow," Cuddy replied, flushing, and House unexpectedly laughed. He let go of her hand, his expression twisting to one of pain, and guiltily Cuddy remembered the bottle in her skirt. She rose and went to the table by the window, decanting and pouring wine into the mug there. When Cuddy turned to glance at House, he was watching her, his eyes focused on the cup.

"Two good mouthfuls," he rasped. Cuddy pulled the bottle out of her pocket. It took some fumbling to break the wax seal, but once she had, she poured some of the thick foul-smelling syrup into the wine.

Cuddy was careful to leave the little bottle on the table as she brought the cup to House.

He took it and drank, his Adam's apple bobbing as he did so, draining it to the bottom, and when House handed her the cup, Cuddy could see his shoulders relax under his nightshirt. He sighed, letting his eyes close, murmuring softly. "Oh sweet mead of the orient, blessed champion of relief; noble counter to ills and aches, how I adore thee---"

"It's medicine, not the elixir of life, House," Cuddy reminded him. She stood watching him for a moment. "Need the bedpan or pot?"

He shook his head and opened his eyes; the pupils were enormous now. "No more opportunities to gaze upon my instrument tonight, Mistress Cuddy—the music master is otherwise engaged in more cerebral delights . . . . " His voice trailed off, and Cuddy gently sat down at his hip once more, waiting.

It didn't take long; he'd drop off to sleep within a few minutes, thanks to the poppy syrup, but Cuddy always stayed until House was under its spell leaving. When his breathing evened out and he lay quiet against the pillows; then was the time to slip out, and take care of business. She took the little bottle with her.

The night was much cooler, and Cuddy pulled a cloak on, wrapping up well as she made her way to the stables and their warm darkness. She made no move to any stall though, but went to the back, and the ladder that rose up to the hayloft above. Climbing easily, Cuddy made her way up, and to—

--her second patient. The man lay facedown on a pallet of straw, his bare back a mass of red and bloody welts. Cuddy quietly lit a candle and set it well away from the straw on a wall sconce, then began to wash his back. He flinched at her touch, but she whispered softly to him. "Quiet. I've got something for your pain, and to help you sleep. Are you still determined to run?"

The man nodded weakly, but with determination. "Jah."

Cuddy smiled briefly, and dipped a rag into the water bucket under the candle.

00oo00oo00

_--and in regard to the matter of House, the issue remains whether or not he can return to active duty in a timely manner. His record of service is a disturbing read, with as many accusations as commendations to it; were it not for the sterling reputation of his father, it is without a doubt that the son would have been dishonorably discharged from His Highness's army well before this. Nevertheless, his medical skills are considerable, and given our situation in the Colonies, worth holding for the time being._

_Should this situation change, and House be declared unfit for return to regular service, then it will be your duty, Colonel Vogler, to dismiss him and have him escorted back to England where he will be found a menial position somewhere at one of the garrisons near London._

00oo00oo00

The morning was cold; the first frost lay on the windows, and Cuddy dressed quickly, wanting nothing more than to get down to the kitchen and warm her hands by the fire there. It was nearly time to start keeping wood inside, too, and she remembered guiltily that House's room had no fireplace.

As she approached his room, she heard voices; curious, she listened.

"Th' grey one is Edgar, and the other is Emily. Cook says I can keep them if I gentle them and keep them from climbing the curtains."

That was Paul, young and earnest. House's voice came back in reply, quiet and slow. "Two ways to do that, right? First, be the only one to feed them. Make sure you're the one setting the dish down each and every time—that's the first step."

"Okay, sir. And the other?"

"Acquaint them with the pleasure of touch . . . like so . . . "

Cuddy slowly opened the door and looked in. House was sitting up in bed, and Paul sat cross-legged at the foot. Between them, a grey kitten skittered over the quilt, and resting on one of House's big palms was a small, round-bellied tabby kitten, purring like a tiny tigress as House stroked his other hand over her back.

He glanced up at Cuddy, then looked back at the kitten, his touch as slow and gentle as before. "Small furry things respond well to soft pettings, Paul—it's a truth for all your life, boy—remember it."

The boy grinned and reached out a finger to the grey kitten, stroking its head. Cuddy bit back her smile. "Take your pets along Paul while I attend to Doctor House—"

"Yes, Mistress," Paul gave a quick nod and collected the two slightly protesting kittens. House watched him go.

"Bring them back when the mean old lady is gone—" he called, amused at Paul's scandalized grin before the boy disappeared.

Cuddy herself smiled. "Small furry things, House?"

He smirked. "That could include kittens as well, yes."


	4. Chapter 4

She shot House a warning look, although the corners of her mouth still turned up. "The boy is innocent—let him stay that while a bit longer."

"As you wish," he agreed mildly, "Although I think you're merely jealous. My skill with small furry things is quite impressive."

"Is there no end to your boasting?" Cuddy chided, moving to check his leg. House shifted, tucking his nightshirt aside. It looked less irritated now, but the scarring was deep and grotesque; a legacy of imperative and pain. House looked away, and Cuddy instinctively knew it wasn't out of shame, but of anger. Quickly she dressed it, wrapping the thigh with strips of linen.

In the act of doing so, her knuckles brushed the heavy lump under his nightshirt, just to the left of his thigh. House gave a soft grunt and she flinched.

"Sorry," Cuddy managed to keep her voice even.

"Ohhhh, I'm not," he rasped. "Not at all."

"Don't be vulgar," she replied, keeping her eyes on the wound and the linens, trying hard not to let her gaze stray. It was difficult, given both the size and enthusiasm of the member in question. Cuddy had not believed House's dimensions when he'd bragged of them before the shooting but since his incapacitation, she'd seen that House hadn't lied--this was one instance of truth over braggadocio.

The knowledge left her both appalled and restless.

Cuddy had enjoyed her marriage bed; David had been sweet and gentle, instructive and patient with her. She'd appreciated his wooing, and found pleasure more often than not in the act itself, but it had been years now, and David had not been so . . . endowed. The very thought of what House could inflict on a woman was enough to alarm her even as she felt her thighs twitch under her skirts.

Sternly she chided herself and finished bandaging her patient, forcing herself to ignore the heavy mass within a finger's breadth. She looked up to find him watching her, his gaze as lazy and speculative as a tomcat's.

Cuddy felt heat rise on her face. "What? Are you in pain?"

"An ache. I'm sure you're familiar with it," he told her in a low voice; a tone soft and coaxing. For a moment, Cuddy wished he was merely mocking her; it was when House spoke like this, with dark honey to his tone that she felt the back of her neck prickle, and her heart beat faster.

"Then I'll leave and let you . . . rub it away—" she muttered tartly, trying to break his spell. He said nothing, but for a long moment Cuddy stared back, and the shadow that crossed House's expression made goosebumps break out along her arms.

"And I'll think of you yet again," he intoned very softly. "Because under that sharp and tough façade you try so hard to maintain, 'Lisa---"

"No," she snapped. "No. Stop. I'm not climbing into bed with you, not now, not ever. I'll tend your wound and feed you, House, but I'm not going to give in to your sweet talk."

He looked hurt, and she wanted to kick herself, but the expression faded in an instant and he took on a mocking smile instead. "As you wish . . . but if you want to make me believe it, you need to stop stroking my knee and breathing quite so hard, madam. That sort of sign tends to rouse my member from amorous slumber and stand ready."

Cuddy glanced down and flushed a deeper red. She jerked back and rose, making her way out the door, accompanied by House's laugh.

00oo00oo00

The deserter had been delivered to Chase's ship amid a load of crates and cargo, mostly lumber but some sheep as well. Chase and Wilson hid him in a tiny berth in the hold, the ease of long practice making it simple. Before the ship set out, Wilson gave Chase the documents that Foreman had painstakingly forged as well.

"He'll be a new man, and the better for it. He's already talking about sending for his family, so he may have a letter for you to carry as well. When will you be back?" Wilson asked. Chase was glancing up, to the sails and gauging the wind, his expression slightly worried.

"At least six weeks, although it could be more. The almanac says to expect a few storms this season, and by the freshening up there I can well believe it." He looked down again and shot Wilson a slightly embarrassed expression. "Have you and your wife considered my proposal?"

Wilson nodded. "We have, but it's still not settled. With a babe on the way, moving an entire household is . . . tricky. Alison says she's agreeable as well, but I need to find a buyer and settle affairs here before we can begin, so that pushes it back to spring at the earliest. Still willing?"

Chase nodded firmly. "I can wait, although from the sound of things out of Boston, war is well and truly is coming, James. But anytime you're ready for Barbados, I'm your man. Give Alison my love."

They shook hands, and Wilson made his way down the gangplank back to the wharf, his mind mulling over matters as he mounted up and turned Hector towards the inland road and home. There was so much to consider, and not nearly as much time as they all believed.

He'd go—Emily was willing, as was Alison. They both had heard Robert's tales of the southern islands enough to be half in love with the idea already. James himself didn't mind leaving behind the ice and snow, and the idea of getting away from the coming conflict held a lot of appeal as well. Not that he was a coward, or a stranger to blood and death—far from it—but there were times when James knew he didn't have quite the patriotic zeal that 'Lisa or Eric did.

America was a good country, but he was too old to go to war.

Sighing, Wilson nudged Hector forward and pulled his coat more closely around himself as the wind began to rise.

When he reached Hitchcock House, Wilson found Colonel Vogler waiting for him, his expression foreboding. "Doctor Wilson. Your services are needed."

"Again?" came the resigned protest. Since House's shooting, the bulk of medical attention to the troops had fallen unwillingly to Wilson, who regularly submitted bills to Vogler, who in turn took considerable time to pay them.

Wilson thought longingly once more of Barbados.

"Again," Vogler broke into his reverie. "It seems we have had a rash of deserters. One however, has not been so lucky, and has been caught and reprimanded. He needs dressing, but I wouldn't bother wasting opium on him, Doctor. If he dies, so much the better as a warning to the others."

"You're so considerate of your men," Wilson couldn't help shooting back, expecting Vogler to respond sharply. Instead, the larger man shrugged, his expression cold.

"There is duty and there is desertion, Doctor Wilson. Neither I nor the generals above me have any interest in coddling trained soldiers. Besides," he intoned with quiet maliciousness, "A whip can loosen a man's tongue faster than spirits, and what our patient has told me has been very enlightening."

Slightly alarmed, Wilson looked up, but Vogler was moving past him, towards the stables.

00oo00oo00

The weather Chase feared came; a chill blew in from the northeast, carrying rain and strong, bone-chilling gusts. The wind whistled through the chimneys, stirring up ashes and pushing icy drafts through all the rooms in Plainsboro. Cuddy urged Brenda to keep the fire going, and let the servants sleep in the kitchen on pallets, the better to stay warm near the big hearth.

The wind rattled the shutters and flooded the yard, and the final indignation was when Cuddy opened the front door to find the cold, dead body of a young Hessian, stripped and pale, lying there. His back was cut to ribbons, and his eyes were still open. As she fought her rising gorge, she looked around, but no one was there.

The groom, Isaiah, carted the body off for burial and told her later that it had been dumped there deliberately.

"The Redcoat colonel says you know more about the deserters than you're tellin', Mistress. Says this boy's blood is on your hands," he muttered. "Bastard. Not the boy—the big-arsed colonel, missus."

"No pardon needed, but we need to be careful. We can't help until the Morgan G. is back anyway, so no more lost souls for a while," Cuddy replied gently. "Will you and William see to it the boy is properly buried?"

"Aye," the old groom nodded, and left Cuddy to her melancholy thoughts.

That night the temperature dropped quickly. Snow began to fall and the wind continued to howl. Cuddy found herself forced to make a pragmatic decision. She carried the board into the room and shot House a hard look. He eyed the plank curiously from under the bundle of covers, his nose red and his breath slightly misty in the light of the single bedside candle.

"If you're planning on setting that alight, you have my full support," he growled. "Drape it over my feet, will you?"

"We're sharing a bed tonight," Cuddy told him, waving the board in a menacing manner when House perked up. "And this is to keep you from getting any ideas. The weather's dangerously cold, and I'm not going to freeze to death when there's body heat to be had."

For a moment, House said nothing, and then gave a resigned sigh. "I'm too cold to argue the point. Get in."

"No, not until you've had your opium," Cuddy countered dryly. "Credit me with some sense, House."

His annoyed look made her smirk, but House took the cup from her and drank it, setting it quickly on the night table and licking his lips. He sighed. "Opportunity lost . . . "

"So you say. I intend to sleep warm for the first time in ages," Cuddy told him as she tugged the plank through the footboard. It was smooth, and House recognized it as one of the shelves from the study as Cuddy tugged. It came up short, not quite reaching the pillows and House snorted.

"Methinks there's a gap in your defenses, M'lady," he observed, turning his head to waggle his eyebrows at her standing there on the other side of the bed.

"Not at all—you know I bite," she reminded him. Cuddy went to collect the candle and bring it to her side of the bed, setting it on the stand there, and gave House a serious look. "I'm in no mood for your ardor, and if the weather were warmer I'd be in my own room tonight, but after this morning . . ." Regretting her words, she shifted and turned, moving to undo her skirt.

Even without looking, she could feel House's gaze on her. His words were soft. "The body. Vogler's done it before; he's not forgiving of desertion."

"He was a boy, House! Paul's elder by a mere six years if that, some mother's SON and now dead and flung to my door like so much garbage because of that . . . that monster!" Cuddy hissed, horrified at her momentary loss of control as she stood trembling.

House gave a long sigh, his expression grim in the candlelight. "Get in before you catch cold. Yes, the boy is dead, but no wailing of yours will bring him back, 'Lisa. Not every wrong can be righted, not even through your unrelenting and Herculean efforts. Men make their choices, and men die—justice is a separate concept from the facts, madam."

Angrily Cuddy pursed her mouth and blew out the candle; instantly the soft whiff of wax and burnt wick drifted out. She eased herself onto the mattress, cold, but uncertain. On the other side of the board, House gave a chuckle. "Surely you're not afraid? I'm a drugged cripple with no intention of losing my creature comforts for the risk of slap and tickle in the dark."

"I'm not afraid of you, she reminded him, and settled herself more firmly on the mattress. Under the weight of two bodies it sagged; the board was now higher than the both of them lying there, and Cuddy made an exasperated sound deep in her throat.

House laughed softly in the dark. "This will make it difficult for me to be aboveboard, as it were. Very wise of you to dose me to the gills."

"House, shut up," Cuddy groused, and rolled away, turning her back to him. She still wore her shift, and stockings of course, but even so the sheets and heavy coverlet were cold and warming up very slowly.

"Fine. Lie apart from me an' suffer if you like," he taunted in a languorous voice. "Although your big arse is already rooooolling my way like a pumpkin---"

Cuddy lay tensely, waiting for his first stealthy move, torn between the comfort and the annoyance. If worst came to worst she could wait until the opium had him under and wrap House firmly in one of the sheets, turning him into one large pillow. But from the sound of his voice he was already starting to drop off, and once that happened she'd be free to relax and get some sleep.

The wind rattled the shutters, and Cuddy listened to Plainsboro manor creak and groan around her. At her back, House radiated warmth, and gradually as the night moved on, she fell asleep.

House lay awake, distracting himself from the sting in his leg by stealthily shifting the board. He'd manage to work it from shoulder level to hip level without too much trouble, but it was now snagging on a section of the quilt, and if he joggled it he risked waking Cuddy.

She lay on her side, her back and bottom spooned against his stomach, warm and deliciously curvy; once the board was out of the way House knew he could slip an arm around her waist, a position that would be much more comfortable than his current one.

With a painful flex of his foot, he managed to unhook the quilt, feeling a small measure of triumph in the simple movement. The leg would bear weight; not as much as before of course, but with practice and a cane he'd walk.

Eventually.

House knew he'd never be free of the pain though. That bleak realization was as seared into his consciousness as his scars were, and just as unavoidably ugly.

But for the moment . . . he gave another slow push on the end of the board and it slid out, the far end dropping to the floor, the clatter dull and low. House froze, waiting for some reaction from Cuddy but she slept on. Emboldened, he shifted a little, and brought his arm to drape around her waist, breathing in the warm scent of her hair.

Cuddy smelled delicious; she had since the first day he'd met her. There was something in the combination of her skin and the scent of bayberry soap that lingered in his senses and made him seek her out.

She was a strong woman in so many senses of the word—feisty, brave, determined. He reluctantly admired those characteristics, understanding how they'd stood her well in this backwater corner of the world. That her politics were foolish and her rebellious activities dangerous somehow added to her charm, House thought. A valkyrie leading a charge over a cliff.

Cuddy shifted, breaking into his thoughts, pressing back against him. House let his eyes flutter closed, enjoying the physical sensation deeply. His hips pushed forward and he tried to make the movement gentle. Thin wool rubbed faded linen as his nightshirt pressed against hers; the pressure hot and perfect. House felt the rise and prod of his erection; he shifted back and felt it slide snugly along the cloth-padded cleft of Cuddy's bottom.

Good. So good. He couldn't help tightening his arm around her waist. His upper leg might be weak, but the rest of him was surging now, hungry and awake. The gentle friction sent waves of pleasure up through the muscles of his stomach, and House felt his breathing deepen. A little more, yes, oh more---

"Mnnnn?" the sound broke his concentration, as did the unexpected hand curling around his shirt-covered erection. House froze. Belatedly he tried to feign sleep, but when the hand gently squeezed, he groaned, the sound low and slightly helpless.

"Mmmmmm . . . " came the pleased sound, and Cuddy rolled over to face him. House couldn't see her well in the darkness, but his other senses made up for it as the scent and feel of her made him swell further in urgent response. He waited, feeling her hand shift to caress him again, her touch brazen and good along his length.

House realized that her eyes were closed, but from her breathing he sensed she was awake, so he held still, savoring the stroke of her fingers. If only she'd shift the nightshirt away . . . He debated doing so himself; judging by her enthusiasm it might be worth the risk. Before he could do so, though, she sighed.

Nimble fingers pulled his nightshirt up, and then her hands stroked everything: his stomach, his thighs, his hips, and his erection, touching gently but insistently. House shivered, torn between luxuriating in the sensations or reciprocating them, but before he could decide, Cuddy slipped her hands higher under his nightshirt and pushed his chest.

He understood, and rolled onto his back, stretching out in anticipation. House hadn't expected 'Lisa to pursue him; on the contrary, he'd assumed his night would be one long, slow seduction. This alternative however, was definitely better, and his stomach tightened once more as 'Lisa slid her palms up and lightly pinched his nipples.

Then she straddled him, moving slowly in the dark, her weight mostly on her knees and shins. House felt the brush of her fur along the underside of his shaft, the hot press of her inner thighs against his bare hips. House groaned. "Want—"

He didn't get to finish as 'Lisa leaned down and dropped her mouth on his, lips soft and hot. House kissed her hungrily as her long hair cascaded around their faces, keeping them in darkness and warmth.

Kissing was good, slow and deep, and House lingered in each tender stroke of her tongue against his own, each suckle and nip. If it hadn't been for the throbbing of his impatient erection he might have drawn out the kissing for an hour or more, so heady and intense was it. But House felt Lisa shift against him, the slick trickle of her own arousal smearing against him in a clear sign that she too, was impatient for more.

Cuddy writhed restlessly, knowing this was insane; a foolish moment here in the dark, but God, House was so warm and gentle, and her entire body wanted him badly. Just the feel of his hands under her shift, stroking her back had her quivering, and his kisses left her breathless. She loved the feel of his stomach, and fuzzy chest with his hard little nipples under her palms. Every time House tried to say something, she silenced him, and eventually he gave up and simply breathed heavily between kisses.

He cupped his big hands around her hips, pulling her, and she knew what he needed; what she wanted, despite her fear. It had been a long, long time, and House was . . . big. She leaned forward on her hands, feeling the hot press of his flexing erection trail down her stomach and slip to nudge between her legs. Tenderly he cupped himself and guided the head, murmuring, "Gentle—"

Cuddy dropped her head and kissed him, fighting her tension as House pushed into her, thick and hot, her body slickly yielding, but tight, tight---

House groaned, deep in his chest. God, it was nearly impossible to keep control, not with the sweet searing heat of Mistress Cuddy's darling little box squeezing every inch of him snugly, making him throb and ache for release. Her tongue frantically tickled his, and House thrust as slowly as he could, pushing slickly deeper.

She whimpered. That little sound, both pained and hungry made him growl. Cuddy wriggled her hips, and House gripped them tightly. "I . . must—" he told her in a hoarse whisper.

"Yes," Cuddy replied, and moved with him. After a fumbling stroke or two, they found a rhythm between them, deep and deliberate, syncopated with their gusty breathing. House kept his eyes open to watch her over him, a silvery woman with shadow tinted hair, her eyes wet and her mouth meeting his again and again.

He'd never thought this woman could ever be so yielding, so delicious and beautiful and generous. As the heat between their moving bodies built, relentlessly, House felt the sullen pleasure roll in hot, unstoppable waves down his stomach and between his legs, rising to pulse and fill her in hard, hot spasms of mindless pleasure that set off white stars under his closed eyelids.

She threw her head back, and from her open mouth came the sweet, slow cry of a woman fulfilled; House held her hips, feeling the shudder wrack her frame, and a strange joy flooded his senses for a moment, drowning out everything else.

Good. This was more than the surface of it; more than just a fancy turn or single night in a bed, and he knew instinctively that she knew it too. There was a rightness to their fit; a feeling of completeness and heat in their joining that was undeniable.

She slumped across him, damp and shivering; House held her tightly for a long time, drowsing and drifting in that grey world between wakefulness and sleep, kept there by the returning throb of his leg, and the sweet warmth of the woman on him.

Cuddy awoke, feeling skin under her cheek.

She'd done it, she realized. The very thing she'd tried to pretend she hadn't wanted from the minute House had crossed her doorstep. Thrown away common sense just because he made her ache . . .

Cuddy cursed herself for an idiot and began to shift off of him. House's grip on her tightened, and in the early morning light she lifted her head to see his curious expression.

"Stay," he murmured, wistfully.

_(Well that's it--before I started writing I had polled readers and asked how long the story should be, and the majority voted for four chapters, so I've met that obligation. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!)_


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